


Stolen Sunlight

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: 3rd Person Limited, Angst, Character Study, During Canon, Family, Friendship, Gen, Incarcerated Varian (Disney), Internal Monologue, Long Shot, Present Tense, RTA, TTS, TTS S1, Tangled the Series S1, Tangled the series - Freeform, Tragedy/Comedy, Villain Varian (Disney), Villain!Varian, rapunzels tangled adventure, tangled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: Arianna never thought she'd find herself afraid of a fourteen-year-old boy, but the events of Secret of the Sundrop won't seem to leave her.She needs to talk to Varian in prison. Not for his sake...but for her own.
Relationships: Queen Arianna of Corona & Rapunzel (Disney), Queen Arianna of Corona & Varian (Disney), Queen Arianna of Corona/King Frederic of Corona (Disney)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 112





	1. Fractured Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I started writing many many years ago, during the hiatus between seasons 1 and 2. I intended to post it way back then, as a long one-shot. I continued to occasionally work on it over the years, however, it's proven one of the hardest fics I've ever written to edit, (mostly due to the amount of internal monologue).  
> I finally decided that probably the only way to get it actually edited and posted is to break it up into multiple chapters, despite the fact that it's essentially only one scene, and I feel like that messes with the format. Hopefully it'll help me edit, and end up making it easier for people to read too XD I might post the full version of this, unbroken up, too after I finish it. But I finally got fed up with my editing process and decided this was the only way. 
> 
> I'm aware that plenty of other people have written Varian and Arianna fics over the years, but at the time I started this there weren't that many yet, and I worked so hard on this, I still wanted to post it, even if others have done things like it. Plus, I'm not sure how many people have written it this heavily from Arianna's perspective.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it, either way! Please don't hesitate to leave a comment to let me know, if so!!

Sun splinters through the castle windows, designing reflections on the newly polished floor.

When she walks into the library, her mouth drops open; The entire room gleams. That Corona sunlight bounces between the tiles, tables, and shelves like a little boy full of energy, laughing as he leaps around the room. 

It may be a royal library, but there’s usually still a layer of dust draped over everything, sealing up the gaps, and clogging up the stories. The servants try their best, but it’s hard to get into all the crevices between the shelves, the cracks between the pages. 

The tiles glitter, the shelves look new, the books don’t cough up dust when she lifts them, even a few of their bindings are mended. 

She stays a while to admire it before heading back for her room, and as she does, Arianna smiles, her gait almost dreamy—so like her daughter’s. 

Who would take such care to polish her library? She appreciates the gesture more than words can express, but she would like to say ‘thank you’ at least. 

A curious sight down the hall interrupts her wondering; a laundry cart, moving on its own. 

A very _full_ laundry cart, that is…Cassandra doesn’t usually fill them so much.

“May I…help you?” she walks up to the cart, tilting her head, strands of hair falling to the side. 

“Oh, no, it’s fine! I got this!” the laundry cart replies. 

The ventriloquist reveals himself: a boy steps out from behind it. She guesses he must be one of Rapunzel’s friends, since she doesn’t remember seeing him here before, and he doesn’t exactly look like a royal servant, (despite the fact that he’s performing one of their jobs).

He pushes back his hair—black, with a streak of turquoise at the front—and smooths out his apron. Upon seeing her, his eyes widen with shock.

“Oh!” he stumbles, attempting to bow too low, too quickly, “Your majesty! I-I am so sorry! I didn’t realize—!”

She laughs, holding out a hand to steady him. 

“Don’t worry. Please. I’m Arianna.”

“Oh—O-Okay. That…seems to run in the family,” he mutters beneath his breath. “I’m Varian.” He leans confidently against the laundry cart…which starts moving, so he pulls it back with all his strength before it gets out of hand. 

“Oh! Varian! Rapunzel told me about you!”

He freezes, his eyes trailing back to her, like people talking about him is usually a bad thing. “She…She has?”

“Of course!” she steps closer. “You’re the alchemist, right?”

He pauses, blinks, then his face breaks into the biggest grin. He clears his throat, rubbing fake dirt off his gloves, trying to hide his joy, as he looks back up at her. “Ten points to the lady in the crown.”

She smiles.

“Are you here for the competition today?” 

He nods. “I think I’ve got a pre-tty good chance of snagging that first prize if I do say so myself,” he pulls on his apron straps, then pauses, realizing how arrogant that sounds. “Not to uh…toot my own horn or anything. But it doesn’t seem like there’s anything like my invention in the running, so I think once Master Doctor St. Croix sees it he’ll be impressed! At least I hope so.”

“Well, if your invention is anything like the ones Rapunzel has told me about you’ll have no trouble snagging that blue ribbon.”

“Oh stop,” he flicks his wrist to wave her off, but is beaming from ear to ear. 

She notes that she may be encouraging him a little too much. The experiments Rapunzel has told her about aren’t exactly all blue-ribbon worthy. Or, perhaps they would be…if they all worked properly. At the same time, she isn’t sure labelling him as dangerous, and reckless is really fair. She and Willow had tried out their share of inventions, which often failed in a grand array of explosions. If they had worked properly, growing up wouldn’t have been as colorful. At least he was trying his best to help people with his inventions. Without the explosive failures, there was no room for fiery success either. 

“Wait, shouldn’t you be there with the other contestants now?”

“Oh, yeah.” He says nonchalantly. “But I figured since I’m going second-to-last I’ve got a decent amount of time before I have to present. Cassi—Cassandra has agreed to be my assistant, so I’m helping her out with her lady-in-waiting duties first.”

“Don’t let her make you do _all_ her work.” She says in a motherly way. Then gasps, “The library!” 

He winces. “Did I do something wrong? I-I can fix it, don’t worry!”

“No, no!” she puts her hands on his shoulders, “So you were the one who cleaned it?”

“Yeees…?”

She pulls him into a hug. “Thank you so much.”—his eyes widen with shock—“I’ve never seen the place look so beautiful.” She releases him. 

“Oh!” he rubs the back of his neck and the smile turns sheepish.

“That must have taken you hours!”

“It was no big deal. Nothing a little home-alchemy can’t fix.” He says like a salesman.

“How did you do it?”

“Just a compound of my own invention,” he digs in his pocket and holds up a little, blue orb between his thumb and forefinger. “Most people don’t understand the more practical uses for alchemy.” he marches forward, hands on his hips, in a hyperbolic show of pride, making his voice sound deep, “that’s why I make it a mission to show the world the value of alchemy! To boldly go where no man has gone before!” he laughs, his pose collapsing, “Or something like that.”

No wonder Rapunzel had such nice things to say about him. There weren’t a lot of people out there who were so…genuine. People who cleaned libraries because they needed cleaning, who created solutions for problems simply because they needed fixing. 

“Maybe one day you can teach me.”

“Really?” He drops the ball and it explodes into a sudsy mess on the already polished floor. “I mean, not that I think a queen should be doing housework! But…really?”

“Please,” she waves him off. “I wasn’t always a queen, you know. If Willow and I had tricks like this maybe our house would have always looked like a pigsty. Sometimes I think we started going off on adventures just to get away from the smell.” She leans in closer, whispering behind her hand, “One time, I set the kitchen on fire trying to bake a birthday cake for Frederic.”

He laughs, then pauses like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to. “I guess not every queen is scared to get her hands dirty, huh?”

“Uh huh,” she puts her hands on her hips, “You should have seen the look on his face.”

“Happy birthday huh?”

“Now make sure to always send someone to Monty’s for his cake…spare us all.”

He fails to keep himself from laughing again, then pauses.

“Well… I really should be getting back to these chores. This laundry isn’t going to clean itself, amIright?” he bobs his head and walks backwards to the cart. “But it was really nice talking to you, your Maj—I mean,” he points, “Arianna.”

“Let me help you! This cart is too heavy to carry on your own.” she rushes over to the other end—he’s so thin, she’s afraid he’ll snap in two if he does all the chores by himself.

“No no!” he comes dangerously close to slapping her hands away. “I mean,” he smiles nervously, pulling his fingers close to his chest, realizing his outburst to the Queen. “I wouldn’t want you to get your…er…royal hands dirty…Right?”

She smiles. 

Well, if a little stubborn. 

“As long as you’re sure.” 

*  


*  


*  
The scene shifts, smearing like a painting left out in the rain. The reflection becomes more sinister; a glowing tower of amber, and encased within, a man reaching to the sky as if trying to catch rays of sunlight; as if light alone can break himself out of his prison of stained glass. The curtain to this godforsaken show is crumpled at the bottom. A giant machine stands in the middle of the room, made of metal, lightning, and cold, haunting music. 

The room smells like sulfur, and rust, and a lot of other chemicals she can’t quite place. Things from the earth which don’t smell natural at all. 

The same boy stands before her. The same, and yet…not the same at all. Along with the light from the windows, so too has disappeared the light from his eyes. The blue is something akin to moonlight; less the gleam of day, the reflection of the sunrise, full of hope, instead, more an eclipsed glow, shrouded by darkness. 

She feels that rusted metal, the cold in his eyes, wrap like icy hands around her ankles. 

She looks quizzically from her cuffed ankles to him. Doesn’t the warden usually cuff the prisoner’s hands? 

He seems to understand her confusion, because he answers her unasked question;

“Please,” he scoffs. His eyes meet hers, and he smirks. The words, the smile, no longer contain compassion, they are manufactured with bite and scorn; “I wouldn’t want you to get your royal hands dirty.” 

He tugs hard on the chain, showing that it’s connected to the lab’s floor, as if saying to a toddler _You’re stuck here, understand?_ He walks back over to his desk—littered with bottles, liquid bubbling and seething like his emotions, an array of colors that tell nothing of what they contain. 

If the color green is sleep, then what color is death? 

She looks up at the golden tower in the center of the room. She doesn’t want to, but she can’t look away. 

—Look away…like Frederic did, when people like Varian were crying out for his help against the rocks. Look away, like Rapunzel had to when the storm was coming, and Quirin was being imprisoned. Look away, like they all did after the storm passed.

She still couldn’t believe her husband would, could do something like that. That was the reason she was here, the reason the boy was hurt, the reason…the mistake, the poorly made choice. 

No, she couldn’t think that way. Besides, she knew he had his reasons, that he wanted to make sure people didn’t panic, and he wanted to keep Rapunzel safe. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t fully understand the situation. 

And she would never blame Rapunzel. Rapunzel had to make one of the most difficult choices of her life that day, had to learn too much about being queen, too soon: that it was about choices, and sometimes those choices would be leaving behind the one, for the sake of the many. 

And the amber was the other reason, and that wasn’t Frederic’s fault...The amber Varian himself had mistakenly made.

Still, it would have been so easy. So easy to come back to him once the storm had ended. So easy...

So where did the fault lie, really?—

Was it amber? Was amber the color of death? Or just another kind of sleep? 

The boy’s eyes shift, glaring at her with nothing more than bitterness. 

Or was it blue? The color of the moon, a well-timed strike of lightning, an icy landscape. Was blue the color of death?

“What are you going to do?” 

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “I’ll reveal my whole plan to you. Let me go into the tragic backstory of Varian,” he waves his hand grandly, “The poor boy, who lost his father to an experiment, a few rocks, a storm, and a princess’ broken promise.” He leans on the desk, resting his cheek in his hand in some mock-loving fashion, his eyes aimed on her like gunfire. “It’s simple; Rapunzel broke her promise.” He stands back up to his full height—which, admittedly, isn’t very high, but it’s more impressive from her place on the ground. “I _tried_ asking nicely for her help, and I was _denied_.” He jabs a finger on the table to emphasize his point; the first sign of violence. “Now I’m going to ask” he smirks, tilting his head to the side, his eyes half-lidded in the dark, “ _not_ so nicely.” 

He pauses a moment, glancing at the chemicals on his desk. 

“I once said I’d teach you the ways of practical alchemy.” He reaches forward and takes up a flask. “Well, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I will show you something.”

He walked over to her, holding the flask full of something green and frothy that smells like dog breath.

Was it green? Was death’s color the same as sleep? The colors of leaves and grass and everything everyone thinks is a sign of life. ...It would be a cruel joke.

“This is a little solution I like to call…Varium.” There’s something hurt in his eyes when he says the word. “You see, when it reacts with the rocks,” he runs his fingers along the black spire jutting through the wall between them—one could be fooled into thinking in an intrigued way, but there was something harsh in his touch, resentful in his eyes, “it has this tendency to—” he held it over the stones, the liquid trickling slowly downwards in the flask, teasing her breath to catch itself and fall. He turns the bottle upright, and bites his lip, closing his eyes, willing himself not to turn around and look at what this has done before. 

What _he_ ’s done. 

“Well, you get the idea,” he mutters, returning the flask to his desk.

She doesn’t have to ask, and he doesn’t have to finish. 

“You think if you threaten me Rapunzel will work with you?” there’s a bite to her words. 

“Ten points to the lady in the crown.” 

She pauses as he returns to work, her eyes trailing along the chain, the floor, jumping onto the windowsill—the rocks interrupting her gaze at every bend and break of the room—searching for any way out, any chance at rescue, anything her husband and daughter could use against him.

Was death black? The color everyone thinks it is. The black of these rocks, the low blue glowing beneath them, destroying his home, destroying their hearts, their chances at friendship and…it surely seemed like it. 

“She won’t, you know.”

He raises an eyebrow as if to say _oh, you think?_

“Rapunzel.” She tries to urge her confidence, like a stubborn pet, to come out, but it shies away by the second. “She won’t help you.”

He smiles. “You make your hypotheses, I’ll make mine.”

“And what _are_ yours?” her own eyes are half lidded. 

He thinks over his words. “She can’t… _help_ but help. She has this sick compassion about her.” After a moment he adds softly, “…but only for her kingdom.”

Anger, injustice, bubble within her chest. 

“You don’t have to be like this, you know.”

“And she didn’t have to break her promise,” he tilts his head, “ya know.”

She grits her teeth, clenches her fist. “I met you once. What happened to that boy who—”

He laughs a little, cutting her off. “Yeah, well, he learned a couple things about the real world.”

For a moment, just one brief moment, there is something there. Something in his eyes, a memory, a reaction, like the chemicals. Something real, something lost, something hurt, something…something not _this_. Incased within a prison of blue—

And then that moment ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two short little scenes are actually one of my favorite things I've ever written for Tangled, strangely enough. I really liked figuring out how a meeting between them would go earlier in S1. They're both so sweet and fun. I think the two of them actually do have a number of similarities. And then I really love twisting and mirroring things. Plus it's fun to write for villain!Varian in general too. He's a fun character to write for, either way XD
> 
> I actually think these scenes sound best when I read them aloud. I really want to do a recording of me reading them (as well as my other fics) at some point.


	2. The Cracks in Their Hearts

Arianna’s eyes flare open, her heart firing and misfiring, taking its panic out on her own ribs. And for a second she can still feel the stone beneath her, the shackles around her ankles, can still hear his voice, feel the weight of his gaze. 

The world behind his eyes then was so cold then: all hate and no hope. So different from the world she lived in. She didn’t want that world to infect her own view. 

She clenches her fingers into the sheets. 

It wasn’t a dream. That much she doesn’t have to question; at some point in a twisted history, it was real. 

How the scene of the boy who smiled and laughed, helping Cassandra with her chores, making the library gleam for little recompense, and the scene of the boy who created a metal monster as a diversion, wrapped chains around her ankles, and teased death and amber before her eyes, could both exist in the same timeline…How the same boy who created machines and compounds to forge solutions, could turn around and use them to manufacture problems, could be played by the same actor, that the only thing that had changed was time…and, at the very end, the same voice that once laughed, and spoke so happily of alchemy and friendship in these castle halls could scream _no_ and _I’ll make you proud_ from a prison cart…she doesn’t understand. It all seems like some sick joke, played with a trick of the light. 

The Queen tosses her legs over the side of the bed, pushing back her hair, careful not to wake Frederic, whose chest is rising and falling to the rhythm of uninterrupted sleep. 

This isn’t the first time. That is, it isn’t the first time her mind parroted and parodied her memories as nightmares.

She tiptoes up to the door and slowly turns the knob, glancing back at Frederic to be sure he doesn’t wake, and quietly shuts it behind her. 

She needs to walk the halls, clear her mind; if she lays back down to sleep now, her heart won’t be able to stop its war march. 

She knows from experience. 

The castle halls are quiet, doused in a blue-violet tinge, spilling through the windows. She steps up to one of these panes, sighing to the night sky speckled with stars. 

The same stars she and Willow chased the sunrise under. The same stars she kissed Frederic under. The same stars, worlds she and Rapunzel gazed at, charted together, asking each other what was out there. 

The same sky he kidnapped her under. 

The same sky. The same boy. The same queen. The only difference is time. 

Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? Likes to play pranks. Heals things. Makes you forget things too. Bad things, yes, but also good things; makes you forget what you lost…and consequently less grateful for what you have. And sometimes it only makes the bad things worse, when your mind won’t let go of them. 

She glances down the hall—the same hall she had met that chipper voice and those eyes so full, so accepting of sunlight. 

The same hall he captured her in.

She recognizes too, it’s the same window she was looking through that day, down upon the town square, watching those she loved be attacked by a beast of the alchemist’s making. The same window at which he threw sleep into her face. 

He looked so different that night. He wasn’t the cute little boy with the gloves, and the apron, and the stripe in his hair, and the glint in his eye. This was a masked criminal in a large, dark coat, which hid weaponry. No boyish twinkle in that blue this time; now the goggles glowed green, like a demon, no soul or sunlight behind them. His raccoon wasn’t the only one he morphed into a monster that night. 

How could a person so easily shut himself off from the bright light inside himself, and turn to such immense darkness? As if the shadows had been asking to play this whole time, and he finally accepted their invitation. That was the question she never could quite wrap her mind around.

How could he treat those he once loved like that?

Is that sweet boy still in there? Is he trapped somewhere inside the darkness, within that prison of blue, crying for mercy? 

She couldn’t imagine any circumstances that could drive _her_ to treat those she loved like that, no matter how angry she was, or how much she had lost. 

Her heartbeat picks up the pace. 

She knows she is safe. Her family is safe. Or at least, she has no reason to believe otherwise. They made it out of that lab, and Varian is just a boy swearing vengeance in the dungeons below her. She knows he cannot come back to haunt her. She knows she is safe.

He’s just a boy. 

So why does she still feel so...uneasy? Why does the thought of him in the dungeon feel, not like the end of a story, the end of a nightmare, like justice…but instead like the beginning, like a crime in and of itself? Why does she still feel sick, and cold, and far too old thinking of him? 

When Rapunzel was taken from them, so long ago—(though it always felt like yesterday)—sorrow was a constant reminder and companion. A quiet buzz of tragedy in the back of her brain. A crack in her heart, making it so she was never fully whole, never fully satisfied. Today’s melancholy, tinged with tomorrow’s hope, tomorrow’s despair. Now the tragedy, the threat, is over. Nothing is missing from their lives. Their hearts are whole again. And Rapunzel has faced many villains on her own, and defeated them with flying colors—him included. 

But Arianna still feels something isn’t right. 

Maybe it’s because this has happened before. Because she had spent so much of her life grieving the loss of their daughter, hoping in the deepest corners of her heart she would come running into the castle one day. 

Maybe because, when her lost princess did come back there was this new thing in the back of her mind saying _Maybe you don’t have her back forever. Maybe she’s not safe. Maybe she’ll be taken from you again_. A part of herself she had to willfully soothe each day. …A voice Frederic was unable to quiet within himself. 

Is it because Varian gave credence to this voice inside her? Because he took their own personal demons and brought them to life in a lab?

But it wasn’t Rapunzel he took…it was _her_. 

Is that the point? Is it because she herself was the one who was kidnapped, for the sake of her daughter? That he used her to get to, to hurt, to in turn use, Rapunzel, too? Because she hadn’t anticipated that? Because the shock of it brought new ammunition to that voice? That now it was clear her daughter wasn’t the only one who could be taken, that any one of them could be stolen away, and used by the opponent? Was it that act of both of them being used as chess pieces in a grand game, instead of people with souls, who were hurting, that keeps her up at night?

It could very well be. But even so, together they had won against him. Arianna was confident that together—be it the three of them, or Rapunzel and her friends—they could face whatever came their way. She wasn’t afraid of him that night, when she was sitting handcuffed to his laboratory floor. She knew they would win. They always did. 

Is it because he _was_ one of her friends, a friend she thought could help Rapunzel face the darkness, a friend who had such light in him? Because he made it so terrifyingly clear that our worst enemies are not faceless monsters in the dark, not really…they are the friends we couldn’t save. His greatest offense was not treason against his kingdom, but against his friend. Is it that thought, that tomorrow’s villains are today’s heroes that sends her heart reeling?

 _But he is down there, in the dungeon_ , she repeats to herself, as she walks down the hall. She knows where he is; he cannot surprise attack her at any moment. He was not the first villain they faced, the first traitor, to Corona, nor will he be the last. That prison is filled with people who tried to take their sunlight away, and lost.

But she does not feel sick thinking of anyone else down there.

So why, when he is put behind bars—

 _Or_ says a voice in the back of her head, a very soft one she’s been trying not to listen to, _maybe it’s_ because _he’s down there._

…Because he’s down there, so close, and if he were to escape it would be so easy for him to strike where it hurt?

—( _No_ , says the voice.)— 

Or—(dare she admit it?)—Maybe it’s because he’s down there, when she knows he once was, and still could be, more than this. Because he’s down there, wasting away, repeating threats to empty walls, while she walks safely in her golden palace above, not caring what happened to him, what’s still happening to him, even now…how much pain he’s still in….

How much his mind is surely tormenting him. 

(Just like her.) 

Two scenes, one boy. But maybe it isn’t the way he turned to the dark…maybe it’s because she knows the dark isn’t all he’s made of. 

Corona isn’t a place where villains and criminals are shut up, or beheaded for their crimes. It’s a place where they’re taught to be better.

She hadn’t given it all that much time to mull in her head before, but now it gives her pause, sinks into her brain. Perhaps this unease is not entirely for herself, her family. Maybe its not fear…it’s _guilt_. Maybe some part of it, even if it’s small and cowering, is not for herself, but for him. 

They all looked away. Frederic looked away when the rocks were destroying their kingdom. Rapunzel looked away when he came to her for help. No one went to him; they all looked away when the storm ended, assumed he was better, for fear of facing the fact that he wasn’t, that the storm had left wreckage behind after all, wreckage they would have to clean up. It was easier to look away. 

Maybe this isn’t about the way he treated her…maybe it’s about the way they’re treating him, when she knows he was once a boy who cleaned libraries, fixed problems, helped people. When she knows he is still human…and they left him there to rot in the dark.

They’re still looking away.

What does she know? Maybe they’re right to leave him there. She doesn’t know him well. All she knew were the stories Rapunzel told, and the brief interactions they had. And the stories proved he was dangerous when good, and the interactions proved he was deadly when evil. 

—(But…was he ever truly evil?)—

She met him twice, and their second, longer meeting was made of metal, and amber, and moonlight. If he could cross straight into the night without a sunset, then maybe she didn’t know him well enough to say they shouldn’t have looked away. 

Still, even though she didn’t know much else, she knew—when she _did_ look at him—the look in his eyes. She was certain that, though his gaze was harsh and unrelenting at those times…there was tragedy behind that ice, frozen in time. She could see the cracks in his heart. Could hear the voices in his head saying _Maybe you can’t save your father after all_. 

A criminal was not all he was. A cell was not all he deserved. 

He was just a boy, lost and hurting. 

Like she was, once. 

She paused, peering around a corner at two guards posted at a door. She knew behind it was the staircase to the dungeon. To …him. 

She’s so close…

She could go see him right now. Sleep deprived and unsteady in mind she could march down there. 

What would she do if she did? Yell and question him? Lecture him on the merits of a non-criminal life? Demand answers, or expect no answers, just want to see him hurt like he hurt her?

She tempers her breath. The thought fades quickly as it comes. 

That is not who she is. That is not who she wants to be, to appear to him as; all fear and anger. If she does, if she wants him to hurt, she is no better than the darkest parts of him. 

And it is not what either of them need. 

She turns away, deciding the bed is more inviting now that her thoughts have coalesced into resolve, and her bare feet take her swiftly back to her room. 

Not tonight. Not now. 

She will talk to him again. She needs to, for both their sakes. She’s not going to look away anymore. 

Because she knows they are the same.


	3. Burglarize, Criticize, Sympathize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here comes another internal monologue-heavy chapter XD
> 
> This was probably the chapter that gave me the most trouble when attempting to edit over the years, so this feels really good to finish! (At least a version of it, I may edit it more as time goes on XD). I would have liked to cut down the internal monologue, but I decided to just keep it in for now. I also kind of wanted to split this chapter into more than one to make it more palatable, but the ideas tie into each other so much I felt like I couldn't really do that? By the time the next chapter came out, the connections between ideas would be lost? I don't know...
> 
> The next chapter should have more dialogue XD But be warned it may take longer, as now we're getting to the part I haven't really written. But all your support for this fic has been such a huge help in giving me motivation to continue!! I definitely wouldn't have posted the next chapters so fast without all your support!! So thank you all so much <3
> 
> Also! I forgot to mention the songs I like for this story! I've been writing this for so many years I have a list of songs for this fic XD but the two songs I thing fit most for this fic (especially the themes in this chapter) are "Towards the Sun" by Rihanna and "The Sun is Rising" by Britt Nicole.

When she arrives at the dungeon’s door, carrying notebook between her hands, it is almost nightfall. The last of the day is at her back, urging her onwards. Her shoes tick against the tiles as she ventures down the hall. 

Everything looks different during the day. At night the navy air was a haze, clouding her thoughts, magnifying all the negative feelings within her. Now her head is clear, and the waning blue day urges her onward, fueling all the positivity and determination in her. 

“Your majesty,” the guards hold their halberds higher, puffing out their chests, as if to show they’re strong for this kingdom, “Is there something we do for you this evening?”

“Thank you, Stan, Pete.” She folds her hands and inclines her head in a sort of bow to each of them. “There is, in fact.”

They stand expectantly for her request. 

“You can let me into the dungeon.”

They glance at each other.

“Of course, your majesty,” Stan bows, reaching for the door. 

“Um…May we ask what this is about?” Pete steps forward, more hesitant. 

Perhaps servants ought to do what their masters ask without hesitation. But, in a way, it was only fitting—some might say even _more_ in line with their duties—for him to be apprehensive. He is concerned for his monarch’s well being after all. It wasn’t exactly normal for her to go down to the dungeon, nor is it a place a Queen would be most welcome.

“You know Varian is down there, right?” Pete speaks behind his hand when she doesn’t answer.

“I am aware. In fact, he’s the reason I’m going down there in the first place.”

Their eyes widen, then they give each other a look. 

She steps forward before they can say anything more. “He’s just a boy,” she says softly. 

“Uhh, yeah, a boy who fed me evil cookies!” Pete exclaims. “And let’s not forget, he kidnapped you!” 

“Well…yes, that’s true. But he’s still just a boy.” She looks down at the notebook and runs her fingers along the cover. “He’s hurting, he needs help” she says half to the air, “…Besides, he can’t hurt me from behind bars.”

“But—with all due respect—your majesty—“

“I appreciate your concern,” she says in a conversation-ending way, stepping forward and placing her hand on his shoulder, “but…this is something I must do.”

They glance at each other once more, before lowering their heads and opening the doors, reluctance in their motions. 

Her shoes sound against the winding stone staircase, leading her down, down into the realm beneath the castle. The last dregs of day drip from the open door along the staircase a few steps ahead of her, as if saying _Hey, come on! Follow us! Don’t be afraid! We’ll be with you each step of the way._

Arianna is not doing this for him. She reminds herself of this. He was not gentle that day, and she knows prison is unlikely to have made him any tamer. He never asked for her forgiveness, whether or not he wants it, and he will not likely be kind in his responses, like the boy she had once met in the castle halls above. He no longer belongs to those halls; he haunts the space beneath them. At least, that’s what everyone thinks…including him. 

She’s trying not to. 

She must admit, she is doing it for him in some way; in that she, even now, even after everything he did to her, even after—or perhaps because of—the sleepless nights… she cares. Some would say it’s one of her fatal flaws. She wants him to realize there is more to him than this cell, these chains, and a few black—and one amber—rocks sticking up from the floor. He is more than metal and moonlight. 

But she also knows if this is for him and him alone, she will fail in her endeavor. If she thinks she is saving a poor, lost boy’s soul, she will lose both their souls in the process, and leave them wandering in the dark.

Forgiveness has never been about the one who did the crime. 

“Your majesty!” the guards patrolling the dungeon bow low. “What an honor! What can we do for you on this fine evening?”

“Thank you.” She inclines her head in return, then says without a hint of hesitation or anxiety, “You can take me to see Varian.” 

“You’re…here to see… Varian?” They glance at each other. “Your majesty, with all due respect, are you sure you want to do that? Varian he…hasn’t been very cooperative.”

She gives a small, sad smile. “I understand. I’ll be very careful.”

They stand on either side of her, leading her to him. 

This was something important, something she _had_ to do. For her state of mind, and of her soul and conscience, even if no one else understood. The bars and chains would be enough to keep him from any attempts at action, and the guards would be ready to act at the moment anything went wrong. 

On her walk to his cell, the other prisoners spit in her face and footsteps, laugh her name as she strides by. She had come to accept their attitudes and actions, and ignore them, a long time ago; let them have their threats, a few pitiful insults are all they have left in here, and they are not enough to make a dent in her pride anyways. 

Varian is not some beast, like the one he sent after those she loved that day—(then again…neither was that creature truly a beast)—he won’t claw through the bars. 

Still, as she draws nearer, her heart speeds up.

Why does stone and metal seem so feeble now, when it was unbreakable, when it was alive, then?

Maybe its the one who was using the metal; he was someone who understood what it was made of, sympathized with its chemistry.

She may know nothing of metal…but she knows what he is made of.

And she sympathizes. 

They bring her to the furthest cell from the door. 

Her expression softens when she sees him; he’s on the bench in the corner of his cell, hugging his knees, like the world forgot him. 

Fractures of light drain across the form of a boy—even smaller and weaker than before, his hair greasy and long—and sizzle on the cold, stone floor. Though the rays dance, urging him to come play with them, as they had with Arianna, they can’t seem to cut through the shadows upon his face. Already it seemed he had told himself the sun couldn’t reach him down here, even when it was draped across his eyes. 

They even chained his hands …which is more than he did with her. 

She can’t exactly blame them. He is the most dangerous person in the kingdom, after all. Or so he’s called. And, being here in his presence—or, more so the presence of the memories seeing him brings—she isn’t exactly complaining about the extra precaution.

But he is still just a fourteen-year-old boy. 

—(Or was it fifteen now? Had he had his birthday in this cell? She hates to think of that, of a young boy spending his birthday without presents, or parties, or a cake, or even so much as a nice wish from his dad. She tells herself that he must be fourteen still to ease the pain.)—

Sitting in the dungeon he hasn’t changed; hasn’t transformed into some sort of monster just by being caged and fed scraps. He is still so young. Just a boy, who deserved better. Fourteen years old, all rage, and pain, and grief. 

The queen holds the notebook she brought—the reminder of her intentions in coming here—tighter to her chest, which itself is growing tight. 

She is a queen, yes, but also a mother. Not his, but something motherly in her sees his hurt, and wants to comfort it, sing to it, read to it, hold it close, and tell it everything will work out in the end, even if she isn’t sure it will. She knows what it’s like to lose family, to have tragedy in your heartbeat.

Kindness, childhood innocence, is something people take for granted. Everyone has their troubles—more pressing matters—so, there are times when everyone brushes this kindness by, knocks it to the cobblestones, in the presence of the problems we must face and fix, here and now, while we are still young—(though we are no longer innocent ourselves). At some point everyone denounces something so bright and precious as their own conscience, as naiveté and ignorance, so as not to regret their actions. They don’t mean it, actively think it, but it’s there, all one must do is stop looking away. That compassion was all he had, all he was, at one point. A heart full, forgiving and, kind. The mistakes he made were just that; mistakes. Not some purposeful show of capability, and control. 

That was before. Before the storm, and the amber, the broken promises, and the flower.

Fourteen years old, yes. But he is not a child. Maybe he wasn’t before either, but it’s different now. _He’s_ different now. Something’s missing. Something important to making you a child. He’s missing something…someone. She knows what that’s like. She once missed someone. Something important to making her a parent. 

She knew Rapunzel never meant any harm, never meant to break her promise, and that she had to make the hardest decision of her life that day, the day she and Frederic were gone—(oh how she wished they had never left). She also knew Rapunzel hadn’t chosen wrong, nor had she chosen right, she had simply _chosen_ , and that’s what being queen is all about. What being human is all about. …And that is everything wrong with being queen. Everything wrong with humanity. Rapunzel had just learned that too early, or perhaps too late. (Everything always felt too late when it came to Rapunzel, and it made Arianna feel sick sometimes).

The fact that the breaking of a promise, and the breaking of a heart, is enough to cause an entire kingdom to falter in one night, is not something one can ever really get used to, no matter how long the crown has been sitting on their head. 

But maybe—something bright, hopeful…naïve? in her wonders—though it isn’t Rapunzel’s fault… maybe it isn’t completely Varian’s either. 

Maybe there isn’t ever only one at fault. Maybe the fault lines run along each of us—much like the black rocks jutting up from their kingdom’s ground—they are everywhere, in all of us alike, creating cracks in solid relationships, there’s no pattern to them, no way of really breaking them. The best we can do is try to understand them instead of ignore them. We can only hope to build bridges, and that we won’t burn them down as we cross them.

There aren’t a lot of people like Varian. In the kingdom, in the world, she supposes; fourteen-year-old boys with heads full of knowledge, and hands that liked to slip, a heart full to the brim with nature of a good kind, but a bit too bittersweet, a little too easy to break. And when his hands didn’t do what he told them, important things, like glass, and trust, shattered upon the floor. There were fourteen-year-old boys who were smart, and ones who were kind, there were clumsy ones, and funny ones, and inappropriate ones, and sly ones, but this one, with all the kindness, and intelligence, in tandem with all the clumsiness, and the grey, was a rarity. It was rare for someone to be so bright, and so dark. Most people are just one or the other.

They didn’t take into account the messes he made, how he could wreck his hometown on accident, simply because he had…what was it? a vision? a dream? an ambition? a simple hypothesis? A plot, a plan, a ploy. All depends on the word you use; words are like spells, sometimes creating the affect you intend simply by repeating them enough. He could destroy a town on accident, all because there was something, something _good_ he wanted to do, a problem he wanted to solve, and he miscalculated a percentage. They didn’t take into account that they really should have been asking themselves, _if this was a miscalculation… what kind of damage can he cause when he does the math right? If this was an accident…what kind of damage can he do on purpose?_

They all shared blame for the unasked question. But when Rapunzel came home that first day she met him, Arianna never took a second to—instead of smiling at her stories, and the drawings in her journal—ask if maybe that made him dangerous. 

And when her daughter came to her after the storm—her hands curled into fists, waging war against the tears in her eyes, and ran to her, burying her face in her chest, her arms around her, saying she didn’t think she wanted to be queen after all—she never once thought to ask if maybe they should send someone to go check on Varian.

Then, on _that_ day he was not the flowery drawings Rapunzel made of him in her journal, not the boy she had met once, on a sunny afternoon, not the desperate child crying for someone to save his dad in the midst of the storm. He was still confident, and stubborn, and his words were still playful… but without the smile. He was still desperate, without a single tear, or plea for help, he was everything he once was, without the light. He was a mask, the color green shimmering in her eyes, her title, and a command to sleep. He was a cause, a curse, misguided conviction, desire, and grief. Not a fourteen-year-old boy, not compassion, not kindness, or naiveté, just that stubbornness, that desperation. Everything else, even those things that he once would never touch with his disobedient hands, became means to his end. 

_“I’ll make them hear me!”_

…Was that all he wanted? If that was all, why couldn’t they listen? Why couldn’t they just go check on him, and see if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t okay? They should have listened to him. One of the saddest things in the world is to watch a child’s words fall on deaf ears; to watch a child standing in a crowd, going after person after person, tugging at their clothes, trying so hard just to be heard. And eventually, if they never are, the scene either inevitably ends with anger or tears. All they had to do was listen. It would have been so simple. 

When Arianna was younger, first growing accustomed to the weight of a crown, they told her that villains would topple the woman beneath, spill her blood, to reach the jewels. She would receive threats, some real—backed with blades and armor—and others empty as the hearts who made them, and she would have to learn to tell the difference. Frederic had said in a show of sweet, but somewhat sappy, sentiment, that she was ‘the kingdom’s most precious jewel’, and her protection was his first priority, no matter the cost. She was grateful for the gesture, but being an adventurer, she was perfectly capable of handling herself. Adding a crown to the weight of the life she already knew how to protect didn’t rattle her. 

She never imagined that one day, she would be kidnapped, and the one to succeed would be, not bandits on the road, or separatists, or sorcerers, but…a kid. 

When she woke up in his lab, chains around her ankles, the blue of his eyes not much better than the pale, emotionless glow of the mask, she still couldn’t believe the sweet kid she had once met was behind that ice. No, not this boy. Not this villain. Maybe she didn’t know him before, but when they did meet, it had struck her how bright his eyes had been. His eyes, his voice, his smile... Without that light he seemed like a different person. 

_“Any moment now, your highness.”_ he had hissed, before singing that he had made a pact with the darkness, that they deserved all this, and they he might not be ready, but he was as ready as he’d ever be… 

Varian scared her. 

There was no other word for it, no other way to describe it. She would have tried to deny it; it seemed silly, after all, to be afraid of a fourteen-year-old boy who had once posed no threat, who she had even joked with. In fact, she would have once laughed at the very thought that he would one day scare her. But there came a point where there was nothing left to think but the truth. 

When all it took was a drop of a mistake, a mistake he made that led to the rest, a mistake her daughter made that led to a test, an amber crypt, a few hurt-soaked words…that scared her, he scared her. 

Because there came a time when that green chemical he had teased her with fell and burned on the black, turning amber and solid, cracking, crawling—not inanimate crystal, but some creature, alive, after all the things she held dear—towards her…

Watching orange and golden spires crackle closer, her heart couldn’t remain steady. And, yes, it would have been scary for anyone; to sit there while imminent imprisonment, or demise—(they couldn’t know which)—crept ever closer, while they were tied to the floor, with no means of break or escape….but that wasn’t quite enough to cause this sort of reaction. 

She’d faced life-threatening situations; her own death or imprisonment before. One could never face it with a steady heart, breath, and sense of reason, but there was an exhilaration to it too; being close to death made life closer too. When the bandits put swords to her throat, or some creature took her back to its lair, yes she was scared, but sometimes she’d smirk at Willow, and, as she cut herself down, as she clashed swords with the villains, she would feel so very alive. 

There was nothing exhilarating this time, nothing exciting, nothing that made life feel as close as death. She’d had no one-liners or fun strategies…was she just getting old?

He was very different from the bandits she had once faced in her travels. He wasn’t some sniveling storybook villain, or routine thug just looking for some extra cash. He had much deeper reasons for doing this. 

He told them that they deserved this. All this pain. That sweet boy in the sunlight thought they deserved to be torn from each other, and used for their parts. Was that possible? Was any of this possible?

He had much deeper reasons for doing this. He was hurting. He was human. And that makes for a far more terrifying villain; the toughest villains to face are not the strongest, or the most powerful… but the ones we can see ourselves in. Because we have to break the mirrors, and that may just give us seven years’ bad luck. Break our views of ourselves. Break our views of the other. And maybe see them as people like us, worthy of being saved, of forgiveness. How had it had taken her thirty-odd years to learn that?

It wasn’t he himself she was afraid of. What made fear truly latch on to her, was just how _easy_ it all was. How one drop of his solution could create a prison of amber. How one choice could lead to a path of hatred. How easy it was for him to watch his father become entombed in a prison of gold, to lose a parent, then turn to face her daughter, and attempt to take a parent from her. All because she broke a promise; chose to save the kingdom over him. That was enough for him, enough for him to find a place for that pendulum of blame to land. What scared her more than her own peril was how easy it was for him, for this compassionate, sunlit boy, to throw everything else aside, away, shut off the light, and plunge himself into darkness. 

—(And, if he was human, didn’t that mean she could do that too?)—

And, as far as the life-threatening went, what scared her most was not her fate; not the amber, nor the chains, not the kidnapping, nor the blame. Her own peril may have unsteadied her heart, but what made her blood run cold as that storm with both fear and anger was her daughter’s life and safety being teased before her. How easy it was for him to hold his friend’s life in the balance. The way she cried out in pain as he hooked her hair up to that machine—(he once did so long ago with no ill intent)—the way she cried out in pain in that lab, that lab that lab—

This fear for her daughter, more than her own well-being, had been a part of her for a while now. Ever since Rapunzel was born. Even more since she came back. When she was told of the dangers of wearing a crown, she wasn’t afraid for her own fate. But when Rapunzel was born everything changed. 

It was Rapunzel. Always Rapunzel. When their daughter was born, she learned there was a jewel worth more than her life, and the weight of a crown. Suddenly Frederic’s statement about ‘the kingdoms most precious jewel,’ the lengths he went to save her life, made sense. 

And all too soon, she learned then what it was like to have someone you love snatched from you, without warning, or threat, or a second glance. 

That night, when Rapunzel was stolen from them, just like she was another jewel.

That night, when the wind was quiet, but fast, and cold, and the moon was full, and their little sundrop was stolen away by a woman in a cloak of night.

She knows how hard it is to forgive that person. She could understand that. How hatred and revenge burn in your gut, and can corrode through your heart if left unchecked. The weight of the faultline is a heavy one. She could understand how, especially when you’re young, it would be difficult to accept such a weight upon yourself. That one might do anything and everything in their power to slough it off, to keep from breaking the mirror. And if you are simply looking for someone besides yourself to place the burden of blame on, how _everyone_ could suddenly seem at fault. But she also knows how to move beyond vengeance, into forgiveness—or, perhaps not so far as forgiveness, but at least something that isn’t unforgiveness. 

This boy is not Gothel. He is different. She knows that. He is just a boy, a boy who is unbelievably smart, a boy who was kind, but whose kindness they mistook for naiveté, and brushed aside, enough that he forgot himself. He is a boy who lost someone, just like she did. He is grieving, and misled within his own head, just like she is. And she knows how much easier it is to hate someone else, than to admit you were wrong. That they’re gone, and even if you didn’t mean to, even if it was by mistake, some of the fault lies with yourself…

She could have hated him for what he did to her. She could have hated him more for what he did to her daughter. She could have chosen revenge, and unforgiveness. No one would have faulted her for it—she wouldn’t even have to bear the weight of the faultline.

But that isn’t her. She isn’t going to turn around and do to him what he did to them. It had taken this long to forgive—(or something close enough)—Mother Gothel, to choose the fact that she had Rapunzel back, the light, over wallowing in the dark. She isn’t going to throw away what she learned then, now, especially not when she knows that that light hasn’t abandoned him, even if he tried to abandon it. 

She isn’t going to abandon him. 

It was a parent he lost, and it is a parent he needs. 

What matters is not that Gothel took Rapunzel from her, but that she has Rapunzel now. 

What mattered to him—whether he knew it or not—she was sure, was knowing that there was still hope, still something, someone there for him now. She has to help him realize that it is not about what he has lost, but what he still has—(which was more than they all think. A mustard seed of kindness is more than most of us have). She wishes they had arrived soon enough to teach him that earlier. She hoped she could still show him that now. 

He is still fourteen-years-old. Still a kid. A kid, lost, and hurting. Despite her own animosity, she could detect the desperation in his voice, the pain flickering behind his anger when he cried _“It’s not my fault! None of it is!”_ And when those blue eyes blew out their circuits, and swiveled to their daughter, all rage and pain, looking for somewhere, some place, some _one_ , to blame, and his voice became so much like a beast’s growl that the adventurer in her wanted to hunt him down—

 _“It’s_ her _fault.”_

…But he was—he is—not a beast. Even then.

That’s what made it so scary, after all; that he was still human. It would have been easy to call him a monster. That would have made things easier on the rest of them at least, to forget he was human. Easy to lock him up and leave him. But what was scary was that he was, and is, human, and she would never be able to forget that. What made it so scary was the pain behind the growls. If she had forgotten, she could have left him here in the dark without guilt or precedent. 

The part of her that wants to denounce him as a beast doesn’t want to admit there is something else there, something searching to be redeemed, searching for any last hope, and…And that was something she understood. Despite the fear, how easy it was, she knew what it was to look for anything, any single shred of hope to cling to. And how even a spiderweb of hope can save lives. 

And wasn’t the ease the other thing that scared her about him? How he turned to the dark so quickly? 

So no, she wasn’t going to go gently into that goodnight. 

He wasn’t completely right then, about Rapunzel. But he wasn’t completely wrong either. Some of the blame didn’t find its home with him. It didn’t justify the lengths he went to, and how easy it was for him to leap them, but they had left him, after all. Someone should have gone to see him, to make sure he hadn’t lost his way in the storm. 

This, and one other small fact led her to believe that he wasn’t completely gone; he never chained her hands. Just her feet. He didn’t do it kindly, and she was sure he didn’t intend it to display mercy. Others may have called it an empty gesture, said _So what? You were still chained, what’s the difference?_

Thinking about it later, it was the smaller gestures like this that mattered, that betrayed the spiderweb’s difference between hope and despair. 

It’s the hands that are dangerous; they’re what slip, and let things break, and catch us all the same. He only chained her method of escape, not her hope to twist his plans—(almost if deep down he _wanted_ her to twist those plans, like he was giving her that thread of hope himself). 

He is a fourteen-year-old boy, and they left him there, in the dungeon. And that is not something she can live with. She was the one he kidnapped, so perhaps she is the one with the most right to be angry. 

But they left him to rot in here, like the Flower she hadn’t known Frederic had kept. 

He stole a flower to save the one he loved…that sounded like another story she knew well, and that story had ended in disaster too. 

The more she thought about, Frederic couldn’t see how, when Arianna herself was dying, he would have done anything to save her life, and how Varian, in a way, was doing the same thing. That didn’t excuse his methods, but, still, the similarities gave her pause. They were both angry, both afraid, desperate to save those they love. But Varian wasn’t a king, and his methods were not so pure, so he was left to the dungeons, his father still trapped, and the king walked the halls above, his wife safe and well, without punishment, even though they both stole the sun in the hopes of healing the hurt, making the clock reverse. 

She wouldn’t have necessarily wanted things to turn out differently, still, she had to admit there was irony in the situation. 

If she had been angry, if she had come down here to spit in his face, they might have called it justice. 

But that is not who she is. Who she wants to be. Forgiveness may not be a word she can quite use with Mother Gothel, but she did everything she could to fight the dark then. When Rapunzel came back, she did everything she could to stop herself from locking her up and keeping her safe from everything that dared hurt her. 

She let her go out and make friends with him…but letting people in meant giving them the chance to betray you. The only way to keep her completely safe was to lock her away. …But doing so would have made her the villain. And she of all people knew danger was the name of living. 

Forgiving him doesn’t mean she approves of what he did. Doesn’t mean she isn’t afraid, or angry, or has fully recovered. It just means that she isn’t going to let the darkness that had taken him so easily have its way with her too. She didn’t want to leave him, she wanted him to be better, she believed that he could be—she had seen what was right in him, she had seen what was left of him. She needed to let him know that someone cared, that she believed he was human, like the rest of us. Not a villain, not a monster, and that she didn’t think he deserved to be left behind in chains. …But he had to see it too.

When she appears before him, a progression of bars and some well-trained guards don’t seem like quite enough—though once upon a time she talked to him without the bars, or the animosity, and he had seemed more than harmless then. 

There are no words of respect. He doesn’t bow, or even address her, or look at her at first. She isn’t a queen here, to him, anymore; she is simply the mother of the girl who never broke a promise, except the one she made to him. She is simply a chess piece he once chained to the floor of his lab. 

He doesn’t give her any sign of respect, or that he’s even noticed her. But he also doesn’t throw curses at her feet like many of the other prisoners did.

At first, he remains silent. His eyes both have somehow lost their fire, and are as electric as they were that day, glowing in the cold grey of the room. 

Everything grey. No black or white here.

“Varian.” Her voice is steady and sober.

“Your highness.” His response pounces, sharp as a claw through the bars. 

His words are grey too. 

He merely addressed her, but there is a bite behind her words. That sting doesn’t feel so empty in his mouth as it did in those of the other prisoners—(just like how he felt different as a villain, now he feels different as a prisoner)—but the words are worn, ragged, from his voice being kept too long silent. A quiet resolve. A lost, broken conviction, but standing nonetheless. He doesn’t hiss the phrase like he did then—all dauntless, and confident he is right, and they’re all wrong, sure he cannot, _will not_ , lose—but he also doesn’t say it kindly, in any way that asks for forgiveness, or implies respect. Nothing betrays the fact that he is a broken boy, lost and hurting. It is simply stated as a fact, hanging there in the air; she is her highness, she walks the castle high above him, and he is here, in this cell fading in the darkness below. 

But she is no angel, and he is no demon, even if everyone else treats him like one.

He is just a boy. She has to remind herself of that. Over, and over, until it finally sticks. That, and the fact that she is not doing this for him. 

She is doing this for herself. For her own heart. If she doesn’t forgive him, if she tells herself that the light cannot—or worse, _should_ not—reach him down here, she really is letting darkest parts of herself win. 

Forgiveness has never been about the one being forgiven, but about the one doing the forgiving.


	4. Passing Glances, Lasting Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here!!
> 
> Sorry it took so long, and my _dearest_ apologies to anyone's comments I have yet to respond to. This chapter needed more editing than the others, plus got started on a couple of zines and it took over a lot of my focus for these past few months.  
> I really hope it was worth the wait!!
> 
> FYI When I wrote this it was before season 3, when I didn't know he shared a cell with Andrew. After I did know, I didn't want to add him in because I felt it messed too much with their interaction.  
> Right now what I'm thinking is that this is supposed to be set early in his imprisonment, and that perhaps he started alone, and then they later realized he needed a cellmate.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments, they really really do help me have motivation to continue things like this, I'm so happy you guys are enjoying it. <3 <3  
> I'd really appreciate if you could comment again!!
> 
> (Please read the end notes too, because I'd like your guys' input on something after you're done!)

Varian’s blue eyes are questioning, almost glowing behind his fringe, like shards of ice holding prehistoric monstrosities just waiting to thaw. 

She clears her throat, her tongue searching for where to begin. Options flare behind her lips;

The anger returns; she could tell him what he once was, and how he’s changed too much, and it breaks all their hearts. 

She could lecture him about how hurting people is wrong, and she disapproves of all he did. 

She could turn around, and say nothing at all; give in to the fear bubbling below the surface, run far away, and leave him wondering why she even came, thinking he won, without quite knowing what game they were playing. 

She could demand why he did what he did, and for his apology. She could demand for him to bow before her, and beg for mercy.

But, if she lectured him, he would not be receptive to her words. If she asked him questions, he would surely put the answers in a magician’s box with swords in it and tell the audience to watch carefully. If she was angry, if she yelled at him and demanded he see her as his queen…she’d never be able to sleep.

But he is not a child for her to order around. Nor was he a villain for her to condemn.

None of that would matter. None of that would work. None of that is why she’s here. 

“The truth is”—where to begin? How to set the tone?—“I don’t approve of what you did.”

She starts with something disciplinary even so. Something queenly. Something motherly, but stern. Her intention was not to lecture, but she thought it best to start from a place of principle. Sympathy is best given by those whom you respect—best given by those whom you think it’s _worth_ being given. It was somewhere to begin at least. 

He gives a small smirk. “You came all this way to tell me that?” He inclines his head. “How sweet.”

She tries to ignore the venom in his voice.

Even in this cell, he believes he’s in the right, that he can control her, make her afraid. But he does not. Will not. 

She is not doing this for him. 

Now she can move her pieces on the board; her words are pawns, which can move only forward, step by step. 

“I think it was harsh, and cruel and in some ways, I still don’t understand _why_ you did it.” 

In a lot of ways. 

But what would she have done to get Rapunzel back when she was gone? And wouldn’t she have spat in Mother Gothel’s face, had she known, had she met her? And what did Frederic do for her when she was dying? 

He is not some monster, not something she can’t understand. She has to remember they are not so different. 

“Glad I’m still a mystery.”

His tone makes it harder to remember what he is. Just a boy, locked in this cell. And the difference between them is that while she may have to line her words up in the right order; put them in neat little ribbons and bows, building up her case, or everything will come crashing down…words are all he has. He will use them to hurt her, because he has words…and nothing left to lose. 

“That, however, is not why I’m here.”

His eyes flick up before he can hide the surprise in them.

...But they darken, and he stands up, his raccoon hopping to the ground, chittering, as if he could feel the tension bubbling below the surface. 

“Oh, really? Then what, pray tell,” he mocks, lifting a hand, “are you here to tell me, _your Majesty_?” The words are the scorpion’s sting. 

This is how he is, how he was then, how he’s going to be. …But she knows this is not all he _could_ be. 

And this is how _she_ is. 

She wraps her free hand around one of the bars, holding onto it like it’s her own resolve, and if she doesn’t hold tight it will turn to sand and slip through her fingers. She is going to get as close as she can, she will prove to him that she is unafraid, though everyone else treats him like a beast.

Even though she is. _She is—_

She’s afraid of a fourteen-year old boy. 

These words won’t get through the bars to him; they are destined to topple. For they are the same as they were that day. The same tone, the same message, though they may be kinder, they still look down upon him, they scorn his goals and treat them as childish. And if they didn’t get through to him in his lab, they won’t reach his heart now that its had time to harden in this cell.

She hates that; knowing that it is their fault, _her_ fault, in some way, that he is like this—

That is why she must forgive him. In a way, she is setting herself free from her own prison. 

And she wants this to work. She wants him to realize there’s more to him. She doesn’t want him to be like this forever. She wants to set him free too. 

Speaking to him as the Queen, judging his actions, starting from a place of truth, but disapproval, will not get through. Appealing to lofty ideals like the good of the kingdom, the good of the king, and of his own soul won’t matter to him. Lofty ideals mean nothing to a boy grieving for his father.

This is not for him. This is for her. It doesn’t matter what he says, what he thinks. In the end, all she can do is try to reach him, knowing it is ultimately his choice to take her hand through the bars. But the success or failure of this mission is measured by whether it helps to heal the fear ingraining itself in her heart, whether it helps to heal the way she thinks of him. 

So, in light of this, what can she say to gain some amount of closure? To heal her heart? Her fear?

She takes a deep breath. 

It isn’t easy to say aloud, to anyone, especially to him. But she knows the truth will save them both.

“What you did…” Her words now gain a far-off quality, more ragged themselves.

The words tasted like anger and fear. They are not the queen’s lofty proclamations…they are Arianna’s real feelings. Her grip tightens around the cold metal of the bar as she whispers darkly, “It scares me.” Her eyes dart to him, her own resolve tightening in coils inside her, becoming something more than the fear. But, despite the still-present anger, there is something very sad in her voice; “You scare me, Varian.”

At first he wants to sneer—she can almost taste the poison on his lips. 

But something about these words catches up to him, reaches the mainframe; the edge in his blue eyes falters, and for a moment, a mere moment, he is a boy again. He is the kindness, the _Oh I’m so sorry!_ the _Did I do something wrong?_ and he is realizing that there is something about her words that makes him sad too. But he pulls the plug, hits reset, the venom replenishes itself, and he is the villain again. He folds his arms over his chest, turns his head, and scoffs, his tone becoming blank of anything that reached him; 

“So what? You expect me to be sorry?” 

“No.” She answers immediately. “No Varian,”—she is going to say his name as much as she can, calling to something deep inside him that is still Varian—“I don’t expect you to be sorry, nor do I expect that you’ll care about anything I have to say.” 

Because she doesn’t. 

She wants him to be. She knows from that single look that that boy is in there; the one who does very much care, who would care if his friends got hurt, who knows there is more to life than just making his father proud, and who would care if the Queen was afraid of him, for whatever reason. She knows that that boy _is_ sorry, even now. 

But she doesn’t expect to see that boy. 

She knows he will hide him, shove that boy and his kindness to the side—(just like they all did, once upon a time)—push him down into the pieces of his shattered heart where there are monsters, and little oxygen, and black rocks growing like thorns. 

If she expects him, she will never see him again. 

If she doesn’t, she will see him in every passing glance.

He takes a step forward.

He is, so unbearably small. He is weak, and dirty, and she can tell he hasn’t been eating well. Yet he’s so tall in her eyes, even here—like he was that day, when she was on the ground, and he on the ladder, his heart is incased in living metal, his motions wound to the tune of a sad music box. He seemed so tall then…though he’d fallen so far then. 

“Then what _are_ you expecting? What do you _want_ from me? Why did you come here, _your Majesty_?” He gets close to the bars, too close, but she isn’t letting his words get so close to her heart. “Did you come to gloat? To condemn me? To lecture me?” He pauses. “Don’t bother,”—His voice becomes a quiet breath—“I’ve already heard them all.”

At first she wonders where he’s heard them, who told them to him—if she was wrong, and Frederic came after all, opted for lectures, instead of accusations. Then she realizes, _Ah, of course. Quirin._ And that thought, the way he mentions his father, the hopelessness hidden in the midst of the intense sadness…it makes her thoughts falter, reshuffle.

“I don’t think you yourself even know why you’re here.” The sting still hides in his tone, slithering in the background, and it will latch its fangs onto her conviction, a parasite, stealing it away, if she isn’t careful. She can almost feel his breath now, he is so close, so horribly close. “Do you? You’re…scared. So why come before the object of your fear?” His lip curls as he mocks, “You must think you’re so _brave._ ”

Anger ignites in her gaze. She can’t believe he’d talk to a queen like this. She grips the bar tighter, the imperfections in the cold metal digging into her palm. 

Her fear makes her feel like a little girl before him. But if he’s weaving fear into the little girl in her heart, she will sow doubt into the little boy in his. 

And from now on she will speak simply to him. Without the judgment, the lectures, the threats. Not as a queen, but as a mother. She will sit down with that boy as he cries in the dark, bring down a drop of sunlight, stolen from the outside, to the boy who doesn’t believe he deserves it. 

“You want me to—?!” 

“Listen.” She breaks though his words.

“What?” he takes a step back. 

That’s all it is. All she needs to heal her heart. All _he_ needs for a chance at redemption. It’s so much simpler than they all thought, than she thought at first. 

“I came here because I want to talk to you. Forgive me if it sounds like a lecture,” She laughs a little, sadly still, “I’m afraid I don’t have much practice. But I don’t pretend to have all the answers either.”

At first he grits his teeth, trying to fight her request, but he turns away, his hand to his chin like when he’s doing serious calculations. He pauses for a long moment, then his eyes tick back to her and scan her. 

He shrugs. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do.” The words are not kind, but the snake in his voice curls up quietly. 

She releases the bar at last. 

“I don’t approve of what you did.” She takes a step back, assuming a more reserved position. “I don’t like it, I don’t understand it, and at times, you still scare me. But this,”—she stops and gestures to the bars—“this cell…” Her eyes fall upon him. She is not afraid to meet that blue now, now that the electricity has calmed slightly, now that he is at least willing to listen. “It won’t change that. It won’t change what happened, or how either of us feel about it.”

She is meeting him where he is now, in this cell, not standing above him and calling him villain.

“Locking you up …I thought it would give me some peace of mind, and while it might mean that you can’t hurt Rapunzel anymore…” She shakes her head a little and murmurs. “I don’t think it helps either of us sleep any easier.”

He pauses, looking down.

“I don’t want our happy ending to mean the unhappiness of yours.”

 _What?_ The boy in his eyes whispers as he jerks his head up. 

“This is not where I want your story to end.”

She can see it. That drop of sunlight she stole for him taking root in his eyes.

“So what are you going to do?” The snake in his voice lifts its head, hisses. “It’s not like you’re going to let me out.”

“No.” She gives a small smile. “It’s not much, I know…but I have made a decision.”

“And what’s that?” 

“I have decided to forgive you.” 

The fear is gone from her voice now. And at last, she means it. She has done what she came here to do.

Surprise, sunrise, flares behind his eyes for a moment. Then he folds his arms, turns away and scoffs, 

“Is this some sort of joke?” The snake has moved to his hands, curls them into fists at his sides, rattling noiselessly in warning. 

“It’s not a joke, Varian.” She answers simply. “Would I go this far for a joke?”

“I didn’t ask for this.” The snake raises its head, bares its fangs.

“No, you didn’t.” She gives a small tinted smile, and she can tell at once just how angry her kindness makes him.

The snake shoots at her. 

“I don’t need your pity, _your Majesty_! Or your—!”

“No, you’re right, you don’t.” She cuts him off. Her voice is completely calm and collected. She can feel the snake in her own heart, slinking away. “Nor am I intending to give it. I didn’t come here for _you_ , Varian.”

He looks up at this thought.

She has no reason to hide the truth from him. 

“I came here for me. For my own presence of mind. _I_ wanted to forgive you. Nothing more. No one made me do it. It’s not a joke, or a lecture, or a new form of punishment.”

“I get it,” he sneers. “Just like the royal family to forgive for the sake of yourself, or your _precious kingdom_ …never for me. Never for the poor boy who just needed a second of your time! 

“What would your beloved family think of you if I told them you came down here to see me? If I told them—!” 

“Tell them if you want to. Frederic may be angry, but what’s done is done. This was my choice. That’s not what this is about, and you know it. I came here for _my_ sake… because I knew if I came here for _you_ , you wouldn’t give me the time of day. So thank you, Varian, for listening. That is all I needed.” She bows slightly. “Think whatever you want, after I’m gone. It doesn’t matter to me.”

He isn’t looking at her, the rattling has spread to his body. 

“I have one last thing for you, if you will accept it.”

His eyes flash to her like lightning.

“Again, I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I could do.”

In lieu of an explanation she lifts up the journal and quill, smoothing her hand over the cover, and holds it through the bars for him to take. She knows putting even her arm through the bars is risky, that it might leave her with serpentine venom in her veins...but this is her act of good faith

He tsks his teeth, folding his arms, turning away.

“Its not for you.” She says simply.

He raises an eyebrow. _Oh? Then who is it for?_

She smirks.

“It’s for that boy I met the day of the science competition. You know, the one who cleaned the library? Do you think you can give it to him for me?”

That makes him angrier, but she isn’t leaving till he takes it. 

“Don’t call it pity.” She smiles, seeing the look in his eyes as he takes a step closer. “Call it revenge, if that makes things easier.”

At first he simply stands there, dark hair covering electric eyes, glancing up every few moments to see if she’ll go away. Then he sighs, walks over to her, snatching it from her grip.

“I gave Rapunzel a journal just like this one.” 

His hands shy away from the pages, like they’ll bite him, at the mention of her daughter. She knew the name would not help, but she needs him to know what this means; that she is treating him the same way she treated her own daughter. 

Threats flare behind his eyes, but quell themselves. He returns to the journal, flicking through it roughly. 

“I thought you might need something to do.” She explains lamely. 

It is a feeble excuse, but a true one nonetheless.

What will he fill it with? Not drawings, like Rapunzel, or flowery interpretations of his adventures. He will likely fill the pages with calculations, like the ones that littered his desk and the walls of his lab, the ones he put the withered sundrop flower on, the ones surely detailing the plot that put him here in the first place. 

The fear is all but gone from her by now. In its place is growing something akin to a flower; hope, the sunlight she intended to bring to him, the seeds planting in her heart too. That’s what forgiveness does, after all.

His eyes scan the empty pages.

He starts at the back, and ends up at the front cover. Upon seeing the inscription, he holds the notebook up in one hand, trying to decipher the words. Unlike her daughter, he doesn’t make some ill-attempt to pronounce the foreign language, instead his eyes pivot to her, demanding an explanation. 

“ _Plus est on vous,_ ” the translation rolls off her tongue, “It means ‘there’s more in you.’”

He slams shut the journal with one hand, closing his eyes. He runs his finger along the spine as if trying to give it chills. Then he pulls out the quill, thumbing through the feather, likely checking that they wouldn’t give him anything too sharp.

“You honestly believe that, don’t you?” His words are dull now. Not sad, not spiteful either. Still grey. 

“What can I say?” Her smile is entirely genuine now, it contains that stolen sunlight. “I’m a sucker for a happy ending.”

“Even for someone like me?”

“Oh, especially for someone like you.”

He smirks. “You really are a fool.”

“Better a fool than a cynic, right?” 

The smile fades, and his eyes lid as he pauses, thinks, then murmurs, “...How do you know I won’t use this to plot against you and your precious kingdom?” 

“I don’t.” 

(Though, from the softness of his tone there, she is almost certain he won’t.)

“So why would you—?!”

“I told you, I didn’t come here for _you_. I don’t care what you do with it after I’m gone. That’s your choice.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” The turmoil, thinly veiled, boils over. “Why would you come here?! Why would you act like everything’s okay?! Like I’m not the guy who kidnapped you, and chained you in his lab?!”

And at last she knows she has reached him... because behind every word she can hear that little boy crying out for mercy. 

As the sky bleeds into navy she knows the last drops of day that guided her down the stairs to him have been planted in his heart. 

She raises an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “Oh? I thought you’d heard all the lectures.” 

His eyes widen.

“Goodbye, Varian.” She turns and begins to leave. “I do hope to see you again, out free. And when I do,”—She stops to look back his way—“Maybe you can teach me that home alchemy after all.”

She catches one last glimpse of the boy she met that day before she exits the dungeon, sure, after all this, she will at least be able to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to continue this storyline...but I'm trying to decide if I should just continue it on this fic, or make it into a series. What do you guys think?  
> This technically _is_ the conclusion to this particular story (and was all I wrote back when I originally wrote it), because it was specifically about Arianna's presence of mind, her wanting to forgive him for her sake, and her being able to sleep. But I don't feel like this is truly the conclusion to this storyline as a whole, and this relationship, (nor do I feel it's entirely satisfying in that regard), and I would love to write more for it, especially since you guys seem to like it so much. But, especially since I think I'll be switching to Varian's perspective, I'm wondering if it might make more sense to let this be the conclusion of this story, and continue the larger storyline in a separate fic?? But I don't know if that's weird because I think you'd need this fic in order to understand the next one...Do fics in a series need to stand alone?  
> Which would you guys prefer/do you think is better? Continuing the story on here, or creating a second fic in the series? Are you interested in reading more at all?  
> Also, please let me know if you want me to notify you if I make it a series and I'll let you know when I post the first chapter!!
> 
> I hope I didn't portray Varian incorrectly. As I said, for the most part I wrote it after S1 when I didn't know his redemption arc, and this is set somewhat early in his imprisonment, when I think he would be a bit more confrontational and villain!Varian-ish. And honestly I preferred writing him that way. I thought it made their interactions a lot more interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> Interested in reading more Tangled fics? Please don't hesitate to check out my other fics!:  
> [ What They Want to Believe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23234764/chapters/55631584)\--A Varian fic about Quirin learning what Varian did at the end of season 1, along with hopefully answering other questions like some of what happened with Andrew, and the Brotherhood!  
> [Her Missing Reflection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16404929)\--a Vampire Rapunzel AU I wrote for the Tangledtober2018 prompt "mirror" which puts a different spin on the original movie!  
> [The Weight of the Wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150965)\--a short ficlet i wrote for the Inktober2019 prompt "ring", delving into Eugene's internal monologue about proposing to Rapunzel.  
> Comments are more than appreciated, they really make my week, and help encourage me to keep writing!
> 
> Also, please feel free to drop some Tangled prompts in my askbox on my [writing blog on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/antihero-writings)! Or just stop by there, or my main blog ([@i-prefer-the-term-antihero,](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/i-prefer-the-term-antihero)) to say hi!


End file.
